


Setbacks

by coudric



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coudric/pseuds/coudric
Summary: A historic loss. A heart-to-heart between captain and vice-captain. A team in shambles but not broken.





	Setbacks

**Author's Note:**

> The game's been a little while now, but I wasn't able to post this before. Nothing special, nothing much, just a little something on emotions and thoughts I wrote after that heart-break of a match. I hope that some people might enjoy the read anyway :)

**Setbacks.**

_Every setback is a setup for a comeback_. – Joel Osteen

 

Sometimes you won and other times you lost.

But you rarely got humiliated like this.

Luka didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It would have resulted in an ugly mix of both, and he was glad for that thick lump of raw emotions in his throat blocking all sounds. But he wished that it weren’t so quiet around him, that the boys would talk over the static run of the showers, that they would make noises while moving around and leaving – the silence was eerie. It felt accusatory.

He hadn’t even bothered to shower, too scared that with the water tears might flow, too. And once let loose, he wouldn’t have been able to stop them. He refused to cry. Not here. Not now. And definitely not where any of the young ones could be witness to it.

Instead, he had sat down, thoughtlessly discarded Sergio’s jersey somewhere, put on his blue checkered shirt and just… waited.

There had been no conversations. No reprimand from coach Dalić – who had seemed like he needed time to process this. And Luka was simply waiting for everyone to leave, one by one, vigilant for anyone who might be upset enough to remain behind. That was what a captain should do, wasn’t it? The least he could do after having failed so miserably at being a captain on the pitch.

When Lovre walked past him with a limping Šime at his side, Luka caught his wrist and squeezed lightly. Lovre didn’t even lift his head in acknowledgement but he didn’t move out of reach either and that counted.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Luka said. Only so much because he didn’t know how to make this better. There were no words to lessen the pain, especially not Lovre’s – _the goalie is the loneliest player on the pitch_ , Suba used to say. _He fails alone and he saves alone_.

Šime caught his eye, nodded as if he understood something Luka himself didn’t and led Lovre out. They had been among the last ones.

Heaving himself to his feet, Luka walked to the other end of the room and knelt down in front of the bench right next to the showers. Close enough to Ivan but not touching. There was still a layer of steam hovering in this part, making his vision a little blurry. Though, not blurry enough that he couldn’t recognize the two jerseys Ivan had laid out on his lap. Croatian. Spanish. 100.

His chest tightened so much that even breathing hurt.

It was supposed to have been a _good_ match, dammit.

“Well,” Ivan eventually said, voice carefully light. “At least, I won’t be forgetting my hundredth game, huh?”

Their worst loss in history, too soon after their biggest success. While that hurt the fact that it had happened in Ivan’s 100th game for Croatia made it that much more horrible. They had been supposed to make it a good game, something special for Ivan to remember fondly. Not this- this absolute _nightmare_.

“Sorry, that-” He moved forward and pressed his forehead against the edge of the bench, groaning lowly, frustrated at his inability to find the right words. “Sorry,” was all that rolled over his tongue, and he was surprised that he could still form any words despite the burning sensation in his throat that the lump had left behind.

Ivan sighed. “Wasn’t your fault.”

Luka huffed in disbelief. “ _Please_. I played horribly.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Ivan turn toward him and simultaneously fold his right ankle over his left knee. The other knee brushed against Luka’s cheek. It was cooler than he would have expected.

“Everyone can have a bad game, Luka.”

“There’s a stark difference between bad and disastrous,” he murmured. Why was talking so exhausting? “Europe’s best player of the year. Finalist for FIFA’s best player. People were talking about Ballon D’Or. What a joke.”

In the end, everyone was right, weren’t they? He hadn’t deserved to win that award and surely didn’t deserve to be considered for any more such titles. His performance today had been disastrous, they probably wouldn’t even think about him as a contender anymore, and rightfully so. But it weren’t the awards that really bothered him, he could live without the pressure and expectations they forced on him. Heck, he would give up each and every one of them, past, present and future, if that meant bringing honor and glory to his country – to preserve the respect their national team had earned through so much hard work.

He could already see it- the headlines, the articles, the comments: _Modric’s Croatia faced with historic humiliation_. Oh, and the mocking. They would disregard the sweat and blood and pain their whole team had put into those bloody silver medals as if that never happened or they weren’t deserving of those, and hurl mocking comment after comment at them. They would be seen as a joke.

After all, the higher you fly, the deeper you fall. And what a fall into disgrace this was.

“Hey.” Ivan’s fingers wound into his hair, not brushing through it but also not making him look up as if he weren’t sure what to do. “Don’t do that. You can’t- it was _one_ bad game. It-”

“ _Six nil_ , Raketa.” Luka tilted his head, left cheek now pressed against the edge of the bench, and stared up at the other player. Ivan’s hand slid along so that his thumb and the lower half of his palm covered part of Luka’s face. “That’s not bad. That’s a _disaster_. Don’t sugarcoat it!”

Ivan furrowed his brow, clearly displeased. “Did you score six own goals? Were you the only player out there? I sucked. The whole team did. We were bad collectively – that’s not just on your head.”

“I’m the _captain_ ,” Luka stressed, trying to make Ivan _understand_.

“And I’m the vice-captain,” Ivan retorted. “Sure, maybe I don’t have the same pressure on me as you do, but I’m expected to play well too. If you failed, then so did I.”

“You didn’t-” He bit down on his tongue, effectively cutting off whatever protest was bubbling on it. Why was this man so stubborn?

Ivan just smiled, thin and bitter, before sliding down the bench to sit next to Luka. He propped his elbow above Luka’s head and placed his head in his right palm. “Well, I did. So did you. And the team. Nothing we can do to change that.” Unfortunately. “But that doesn’t discredit our achievements and definitely not yours. One game doesn’t define your worth.”

He had always envied this – Ivan’s ability to stay positive even if there really was no reason to. Especially not for him. “People will see it differently.”

“People expect Leo to carry Argentina all by himself. They expect Ronaldo to score in every game. They expect the top teams to always remain top. People’s expectations aren’t realistic.” He paused and pursed his lips in thought. “Didn’t Ronaldo even win the Ballon D’Or in 2014? They lost four nil against Germany in the World Cup and were knocked out in the group stage. So, forgive me for believing that one game doesn’t define your worth.”

 _I am not Cris_ , he wanted to say yet, couldn’t. What was the point? Ivan would disagree with every protest he would come up with, and they would keep talking in circles and he would end up annoying Ivan, eventually.

“Also, you keep saying ‘people’ as if that means anything,” Ivan continued, oblivious to the chaos raging within Luka. “Who cares? They’ll say we’re shit and our World Cup run was a fluke. Won’t change that we won silver. They’ll say you’re bad and didn’t deserve becoming Europe’s best player. Won’t change that you’ve got that award in your collection. And more to come, hopefully.” With a half-smirk, he added, “They can choke on their hateful comments.”

Luka’s mind flashed to that piece of an interview he had read recently on several platforms: Ivan’s words about how he deserved his award and everyone who was jealous of his success could die in their jealousy. Marcelo had shown it to him first and teased him relentlessly over his embarrassment. Though, didn’t that make this whole situation that much worse? His friends and teammates had supported him so confidently when others had doubted him, and that was how he repaid them their trust.

“Seriously, I can hear you thinking.”

“No, you can’t,” he denied on reflex.

“Sure can,” his friend insisted. He sounded tired by now, there was a  definite crack in his voice that had Luka’s throat close up. “Stop that. Don’t feel responsible all by yourself, alright? We’ll have better games to come.”

He didn’t know what to feel right now, his head was spinning with too many thoughts and emotions. But- He was going on and on about his own failings, his own guilt although, the situation was bigger than he. _How selfish_.

“Don’t overdo it,” he found himself saying ruefully. “It’s not like anyone’s around, and this isn’t just about me. If all of us lost, then all of us should be allowed to express it.”

Ivan’s smile slipped right off and for a split second, Luka regretted opening his mouth. The regret dissipated though when Ivan’s face closed off and his pupils darkened with a sadness Luka himself was drowning in. This was more real and honest, it allowed him to gauge Ivan’s feelings and respond better. Yet, it was painful.

“I mean what I said,” Ivan sighed. There was no fake cheer underlying his words this time, just raw, undisguised pain. “But… honestly?”

Luka lowered his gaze, and fixed it on the Croatian jersey that was resting half on Ivan’s thigh and half on his own. The 1 was swallowed by a crease. He reached out to straighten it and let his hand linger. It hurt to looks at Ivan’s face – he wanted him to be sincere with his emotions but he didn’t have to like it. “Hmm?”

“Right now, I just want to lock myself into a room and not come out for… maybe until I have erased this day from my memory.”

“We could stash Domaćicas,” Luka agreed. “Stuff ourselves full until we’ll be too sick to feel bad about football.”

Ivan snorted, low and hoarse. “We’ll have to accommodate Šime in that case, captain.”

Luka’s lips twitched at that. “I’ll accommodate all of them, if I have to. And throw out their phones, they don’t deserve that shit-storm.” He really would. They were already down, no one had the right to kick them even more and if Luka could help it, he wouldn’t let them.

When the first droplet hit the knuckle of his middle finger, Luka didn’t flinch but his hand did tighten around the soft cloth of the jersey. “I wish you’d be as supportive of yourself.”

“You’re one to talk.” He shut his lids and willed the burning sensation behind them to subside. “ _I_ wish you’d let it out more often.” Especially so he wouldn’t feel even more pathetic for laying bare his insecurities while basically ignoring Ivan’s.

“Guess we’ve both got a lot to work on, huh?” How he could keep his voice so steady despite crying, Luka had no idea. Another enviable trait of Ivan, he supposed.

Quieter, he said, “This game was supposed to be special.”

Matching his volume, Ivan replied, “It was. Just not in the way we wanted it to be.”

“You didn’t deserve this.”

“ _We_ didn’t.”

His heart was still heavy in his chest but it didn’t ache with each beat anymore. Letting go of the jersey, he pulled Ivan into a hug and let him bury his face into his neck. It was an awkward angle, his knees hurt, his legs shook with the effort to keep him upright. But he could feel Ivan’s tears against his skin and nothing else mattered. “We’ll work harder next time. Be better.” He wouldn’t allow their hard earned reputation to be trampled on like this.

“Of course,” Ivan said, voice muffled. “Can’t let the English have the last laugh now, can we?”

Luka smiled, small but sincerely amused. _Always have your priorities set, right?_

“Hey- Is this a bad time?”

Luka craned his neck to look over his shoulder, surprised that someone was still around. Mateo stood indecisively in the door, one hand on the knob, the other holding his phone. Behind him, Domo was peering curiously inside. And he could swear there were more people out there.

“What are you guys still doing here?”

“Waiting for you two,” Domo said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Are you ready?”

He let go of Ivan and stood up on wobbly legs, positioning himself so that Ivan could clean his face without it being obvious. “Everyone?”

Once focused, Luka could see better: Both the Markos were huddled together at the far end of the corridor, and Tin was clutching Domo’s arm and stretching on his toes to look into the room, and Šime was talking to unresponsive Lovre while Brozo was patting his shoulder and… Luka felt his insides uncoil and soar with warmth.

“We wanted to give you space,” Mateo was saying as he walked over. “But you have to see this.”

Behind him, Ivan shuffled to his feet, though Luka barely noticed it, too distracted by the phone pushed into his face. He took it and observed the screen. Instagram. Dejan. The warmth spread through his veins with each word he read. _What a dork_. But he could understand Mateo’s giddiness now.

“Wow,” Ivan chuckled. “The world can thrash us but at least we’ve got each other’s back.”

“I probably have more messages on my phone.” He hadn’t dared to check and probably wouldn’t do so for a while. Thoughtfully, he added, “I’ll have Suba talk to Lovre.”

“He’s really down,” Mateo agreed, retracting his phone. “Won’t talk to anyone.”

Mateo’s eyes were puffy and red, Luka noted. He reached out instinctively and brushed over the short-shorn hair at Mateo’s forehead which was still wet. They were here now but everyone would be on their way soon enough – he couldn’t make sure they would be okay if he wasn’t _there_. The realization had him on edge. “Chelsea treating you well?”

Mateo blinked, probably caught off-guard by the abrupt question. “They’re nice. Great,” he replied with a half-shrug.

Good enough. “They better be.”

“Or Luka might have to have a talk with them,” Ivan teased with a playful nudge against Luka’s shoulder.

Mateo frowned, clearly not following, but didn’t say anything else on the matter and let Luka push him toward the door. Even if his new club wouldn’t, at least Izabel would have his back and that was reassuring enough for Luka, for now. Glancing toward Ivan who was grabbing Luka’s bag, his own in the other hand, he agreed, “Obviously.”

Ivan placed bot the jerseys on each shoulder, smiling softly. “You know, Barca would take you in if you’re done with your teammates.”

“Tempting, Raketa, really tempting.”

“You should come to Chelsea, if anything!” Mateo objected almost vehemently.

Luka shook his head at both these idiots.

He could admit that Spain had played fantastically – Marco, Isco and Sergio had been great. Yet, he had also to admit that he felt queasy at the thought of having to share a pitch with them so soon. Maybe it was petty but he was only a human and he dreaded having to face his team and their pity. But could he escape that inevitable scenario? No, and neither did he want to. He didn’t run away from his problems.

Once outside, he froze mid-step, both brows furrowed in confusion. Ivan – Perišić – was carrying a plastic bag and just had Livaja reluctantly put something into it. “What are you doing?”

He barely acknowledged them before moving toward them with the bag. “Confiscating phones,” was the gruff reply as he snatched Mateo’s device without asking for permission. “Don’t need these bitches right now.”

Gratitude surged through Luka, so sudden and intense that he had to grab Ivan’s arm for support. Ivan startled, surprised, but didn’t comment on it. Instead, he said, “See, you don’t need to feel responsible all by yourself.”

Perišić gave them both a critical once-over, and for the first time this night, Luka felt terrible for the state he was in. Maybe he should have showered… only to escape this judging that only Perišić could pull off without being offending. “That goes for both of you geniuses,” the other man grunted. “We fucked up. Say it once, don’t coddle anyone and be done with it. No need to convince yourself you fucked up alone while sugarcoating the other’s failing.” He knew them too well. “Next time, we’ll get them.”

“For nothing is more terrifying than an Ivan Perišić scorned,” Domo snorted from somewhere.

Luka stared at all of them. They made a pitiful sight, wet and full of resignation and dark moods and forced cheer. But they were all here, not wanting to leave anyone behind when they could have already holed up somewhere. The older players were taking care of the younger ones as best as they could, and it did make Luka feel less responsible in this very moment.

This was a new team, not the one who made history at the World Cup. Their journey started less than savory. But they would work harder and figure out their new dynamics, eventually. Better to mess up now and learn instead of messing up later on an even bigger stage, right? They could use this fuel to move forward.

He just hoped that this defeat wouldn’t drag anyone down with it.

He, too, would be careful not to slip. There were still goals he aimed to achieve with this team, after all.

“Your phones, _captains_. I’d like to get out of this bloody Spanish dump.”

 


End file.
